


Out of time

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Dangerous Liaisons, F/F, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Requires suspension of disbelief, Threesome - F/F/M, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 19:11:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18784393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: When Brienne was sixteen years old, King Robert and his court came to Storm's End. There she met golden Ser Jaime Lannister and his beautiful twin, Queen Cersei.[Years later, Brienne could only laugh when Lord Tarly told her Renly’s knights had been laying bets on her maidenhead.]





	Out of time

**Author's Note:**

> Um. So. This happened. *blushes* Please enjoy? [Let's pretend Cersei is more open to sharing than in canon]

**

BRIENNE

**

Years later, at Highgarden, Brienne could only laugh when Lord Tarly informed her that the knights she thought had been courting her had been laying bets on her maidenhead. 

“Do you think this is a laughing matter, girl?” he demanded. “Think yourself lucky I put a stop to it in time. If anything had come of it, you’d only have yourself to blame.”

It was no laughing matter, of course. But Brienne could not tell Lord Tarly that she had already surrendered her maidenhead, and in far stranger circumstances than mere crude seduction. 

**

When Brienne was sixteen years old, after the last ill-fated attempt to betroth her to old Ser Humphrey Wagstaff, her father called her into his antechamber. 

“The King is coming to Storm’s End, daughter,” Lord Selwyn said, holding up a scroll recently arrived by raven. “I must attend him there to pay homage. I would have you come with me, to be introduced to the court as my heir.”

“To Storm’s End?” Brienne asked, thinking of Renly Baratheon, who had been so kind to her once. Of the lords and ladies of the Stormlands, who had laughed and whispered and mocked her. 

“Yes,” Lord Selwyn confirmed. “The King and all his court, and all the attendant hangers-on.”

** 

And so it was that Lord Selwyn of Tarth and his daughter Brienne came to Storm’s End and were presented to the King and Queen. 

There were muffled titters in the crowd as Brienne, dressed in a hideous, ill-fitting dress, made a wobbling curtsey. King Robert – fat, good-natured and drunk – laughed outright, but not unkindly. 

“Renly said you were a strapping warrior wench,” he said. “Well, you may be good with a sword, but once you’re properly wed you’ll give your husband big, strong sons, I’ll wager.”

Queen Cersei smiled, her face a polite mask. “Lady Brienne,” she said. “You must join me in my solar.”

Brienne could find no way to gracefully refuse the invitation, and so stammered out her acceptance and thanks, blushing horribly. 

At the foot of the dais, two knights of the Kingsguard watched on. Ser Barristan Selmy she recognized by repute, grave and dignified and white-haired; the other, handsome and golden, bore such a striking resemblance to the Queen that he could only be her brother, the Kingslayer. 

He was watching her with curious interest and amusement, and his smile cut like a knife. 

**

That afternoon, Brienne waited on Queen Cersei. The ladies’ solar of Storm’s End was silk-draped and luxurious, so utterly feminine and graceful that it made Brienne feel like a lumbering ox in comparison. 

The Queen held court near the jeweled glass windows, surrounded by her ladies and attendants; she was dressed in crimson and gold silk, her golden hair falling over her white shoulders, beautiful and fierce and proud. 

“Welcome, Lady Brienne,” she said with that same polite smile, waving Brienne to a delicate chair. “Will you have some wine?” 

The Queen herself was drinking Arbor Red, her cheeks delicately flushed. 

Brienne accepted a chased golden goblet and drank politely. She was introduced to the Queen’s ladies: beautiful and graceful, dressed in silken gowns with pale skin and soft, delicate hands. They reminded Brienne of tiny birds, fluttering and sweet-singing, but their eyes were sharp and darting and calculating. 

The sun slanted golden through the silken drapes, and the windows were thrown open to catch the passing sea breezes; in the slow, languid warmth of mid-afternoon the Queen and her ladies sewed and played music and sang, talked of lovers and scandals and murmured amongst themselves, laughing behind their hands. 

The Queen was gracious enough to try and include her in the conversation, but soon Brienne began to feel the old sense of isolation and exclusion: she had absolutely nothing in common with these beautiful, delicate ladies, nothing save her sex. 

She had never been able to understand the games that women played. 

**

When the Queen finally dismissed her, she made her way back to her chamber with the help of a young page. As the page led her along a balcony overlooking the practice yard, she heard the sound of clashing steel and masculine voices. 

Unable to resist, she looked down to see one of Lord Renly’s bannermen facing off against the Kingslayer. After no more than a few moments, it became clear that whatever else he was, Ser Jaime Lannister was a superb swordsman; Brienne spent long moments marveling at his grace and agility and the smoothness of his footwork. 

As if he could sense her eyes on him, he looked up and caught her watching – he threw her a wink and a swift, wicked smile, and quickly battered his opponent into submission. 

** 

The next day, while she stood on the balcony and watched Ser Jaime in the practice yard, he looked up, looked right at her. 

“Lady Brienne,” he called. 

The other knights and squires and men at arms in the yard turned to follow his gaze. 

Brienne stood rooted to the spot, frozen. 

“Lord Renly tells me you have been trained to fight,” he drawled, walking forwards so that he stood just below her, looking up. “Are you any good?” 

She did not know what to do. He stood there and watched her like a lazy, golden lion, cool and challenging, a cruel edge to his amusement. The other men stood behind him, their interest piqued. Eventually she found her voice. “My father’s master at arms, Ser Goodwin seems to think so, ser.”

He smiled up at her. “Then perhaps you might spar with me this afternoon,” he said, gesturing with his sword to the yard behind him. 

Brienne stared at him, wide-eyed. She was a freak, a giant ugly beast; she had been made mock of all her life. Surely he was jesting with her. But even as the men behind him sniggered and made crude jests, his eyes remained steady on hers – cruel and amused as they were, they were not – 

There was nothing small or petty about him. 

Her heart pounding, terrified of mockery and rejection, she looked into Ser Jaime Lannister’s eyes and took a chance.

“Y-yes,” she breathed, swallowing. “Yes, I would like that very much.” 

“Then come down,” he said. “The squires will find you some proper clothes.”

The squires, thus admonished, found her some proper clothes. Brienne hastily ducked into a private corner and changed into men’s garb. And then she stepped out into the practice yard of Storm’s End, in front of all the best knights and lords and fighting men of the Stormlands, and she stood before Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. 

Inevitably, the onlookers began laying wagers. 

She ignored them, her attention focused on the white and gold figure of her opponent. He began slowly, circling her, testing her footwork and her reactions; once he had gained her measure, though, he was cat-quick, strong and ruthless. He did not hesitate to knock her down, sending her tumbling onto her behind on the packed dirt. 

There was a scattered ripple of laughter, a series of crude jests and obscene comments. 

She picked herself up, stood before him again, ready. He came at her quickly, a swift, inexorable attack; it was all she could do to defend herself. She managed to hold her own, but she was so focused on him that she forgot her surroundings; her foot caught on a rock and she staggered off balance for a split second. 

He kicked her hard in the chest and sent her crashing to the ground. She rolled, scrambling to get back to her feet. He was so quick! 

“Get up,” he drawled. “And this time, mind your surroundings.” 

Ignoring the laughter from the crowd, she squared her shoulders and faced him again. This time, her blood singing and her lips stretched in a snarling smile, all her strength and skill came back to her. She did not manage to best him – he was one of the best swordsmen of Westeros in his prime, too experienced, too cunning, too ruthless – but she made them all sit up and take notice of her. 

Afterwards, he gave her a long, assessing look. “Come back again tomorrow,” he said. 

**

Day melted into day, and Brienne continued to join the Queen and her ladies in the morning, a wholly feminine world of silks and perfumes and soft enticements. Brienne found the Queen mesmerizing, so fierce and strong and yet so womanly, so different to anyone that Brienne had ever known. 

And then every afternoon after the Queen dismissed her she would change into masculine garb and join Ser Jaime in the practice yard. There she would fight and train with him, or sometimes with the knights of the Stormlands or even some of the other Kingsguard. 

In the privacy of her own chamber, cradled by down pillows and silken sheets, she replayed every moment of her interaction with him: so skilled and graceful and strong, the mirror image of the Queen wrought in masculine form. 

Sometimes, his features melted into those of the Queen. 

**

JAIME

**

“Do you enjoy playing at swords with that absurd creature, brother?” Cersei whispered in his ear, her hair falling about him like a golden curtain. “Don’t tell me she’s caught your interest.” She played with the laces of his breeches, fingers brushing teasingly – warningly – against his cock. “She certainly can’t keep her big blue eyes off you.”

Jaime caught her around the waist and drew her against him. She tried to push him away, throwing him a haughty look – mainly for show. The way she melted into him and hungrily returned his kiss said otherwise. 

“If we’re speaking of big blue eyes,” he drawled, as he rucked up her skirts and slipped his hand into her smallclothes, finding her slick and warm and eager for him, “I notice that her eyes follow you, too.”

Cersei laughed, bemused and cruelly delighted. “Oh, Jaime,” she said, “do you think she looks on us and desires us both?” She pushed him down to the bed and straddled him, fully clothed, taking him into her body with a low, throaty moan. And then she looked at him, her eyes dancing, wicked green. “How shall we punish her for her presumption?” 

Jaime sat up and gathered her close, slowly thrusting up into her as she moved on him. For a moment, as he closed his eyes, he saw the Lady Brienne’s blue eyes, innocent and wary, watching them both with dawning interest and slow, cautious curiosity – 

“Oh,” Cersei breathed, “oh, really?” Jaime’s eyes flew open to meet her narrowed green gaze, filled with heat, half-amused and half-vexed and ready to fall either way. 

“Think on it, sister,” he said. “Such a homely maid, and so innocent – what would it be like, to awaken her? Hmm?” He kissed his way down her throat, stroked his fingers over her cunt and circled and pressed against her clit. “She watches us so longingly, she’ll be entirely devoted to our pleasure. And if she speaks one word of it, she’ll be a laughingstock.” 

Cersei liked that idea, he knew. He could feel her growing even wetter, her wicked green eyes glinting with feline cruelty. She dragged his head up and bit hungrily at his jaw, her nails biting into his shoulders and scoring his back. 

“Yes,” she breathed, panting hoarsely into his mouth as she rode him fiercely to her own completion. “Yes.”

When he buried his face in her throat and came, he saw Cersei’s radiant golden beauty, as always – but her eyes were blue and strangely innocent, not green.

** 

BRIENNE

** 

The King rode out from Storm’s End on a week-long hunt, taking most of the court with him. 

That morning the Queen called on Brienne to attend her – not in her solar, but in her bedchamber. As she made her clumsy curtsey to the Queen, dressed in green and gold with her hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders, Brienne noticed that her ladies in waiting were not in attendance. In fact, the Queen’s only companion was Ser Jaime, seated casually in the window embrasure, dressed in a white leather surcoat. 

Seeing them so close together only emphasized their similarity. They were both tall, golden and beautiful, the Queen proud and Ser Jaime with a razor-sharp smile. 

They plied her courtesies and sweetmeats and sweet, heady wine, and for a while she was so distracted by the wine and by their twinned beauty that she drifted off into a silent reverie and did not – quite – realize where the conversation had gone, nor what they were offering. Not at first. 

“We’re asking you to join us, Lady Brienne,” the Queen said. 

“…us?” Brienne asked, her thoughts swimming, her eyes darting from one golden twin to the other. “But I thought – are you not brother and sister?” 

The Queen sighed. “Don’t be so provincial, my dear,” she said. 

“If it was good enough for the Targaryens,” Ser Jaime said, “why not for us?” He looked impatient suddenly. “Why should it be anyone’s business but our own?”

“But –” Brienne knew she should be horrified. It was incest. It was taboo, an abomination. But when she thought of them, both beautiful and golden, pressed together and entwined – “Oh,” she breathed, her face flushing blotchy crimson. 

The Queen laughed. “You’re quite delightful, aren’t you?” 

“But what about the King?” Brienne asked. “Does he…?”

Ser Jaime snorted. “Robert is a fat, philandering fool,” he said with blunt contempt. “He doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Brienne got up from her chair suddenly, pressed a hand to her flushed and heated cheeks. She felt restless and unsettled, a deep pulse beating low and aching in her belly; the thought of the Queen and Ser Jaime together, like that – the thought of joining them – 

“This is taking too long, sister,” Ser Jaime said. He got to his feet, crossed swiftly over to Brienne and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her hard against him. She squeaked, her hands pushing against his chest – she was taller than he was, she realized in alarm, but it was only a passing thought before he tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her into a kiss. 

She drew in her breath, shocked, but he gave her no time – his mouth was on hers, devouring and consuming, and his arm banded tightly around her waist. 

“Oh,” she breathed, tearing her mouth away, her breath coming short. He kissed her again, gentler this time, coaxing and teasing, parting her lips and stroking her tongue with his own. 

She melted against him. 

Behind her, she felt the warmth of another body pressed against her, felt the cool silk of the Queen’s hair, smelled her dizzying perfume. 

“Oh,” Brienne breathed, finally beginning to understand. “Oh.”

**

The Queen was glorious and beautiful, her lips red, her body soft and warm and sweet-smelling. She was strong and fierce and unashamed. Ser Jaime was laughing and wicked, his hands strong and calloused, so magnificent in the warm golden light. 

They taught Brienne the pleasure of kissing, of lips meeting and tongues tangling, of caresses both gentle and firm, of tiny nipping bites that stung and startled before becoming a sweet pleasure-pain. They taught her to take pleasure in herself, to be unashamed of her size and strength – Ser Jaime laughed when she straddled him and held him down, his eyes unabashedly admiring – and to reach out for what she wanted. 

They taught her that there was no sin in pleasure, no shame in love, and nothing forbidden between lovers. 

They explored her body and encouraged her to explore theirs in turn. Brienne kissed her way down the Queen’s body, suckling at her soft white breasts and trailing her hands over her soft skin. Ser Jaime showed her the seat of a woman’s pleasure, a tiny nub at the top of the Queen’s – her _cunt_ – and showed her how a woman might be brought to gasping pleasure with fingers and tongue. 

The Queen purred encouragement in her ear as Brienne trailed her hands over Ser Jaime’s golden, muscular body, breathing in the warm, masculine scent of him, tasting his sweat-slick skin, taking Brienne’s hand in her own and teaching her how to touch and kiss a man’s cock and make him writhe. 

They kissed her and stroked her and whispered honeyed words in her ears. They were so alike and so beautiful, so unashamed, that Brienne forgot that she was a freak, too big and too ugly, forgot Septa Roelle’s cruel warnings and strictures, forgot everything but her own pleasure and desire.

When the Queen kissed her with her red lips, warm and sweet and sharp-edged, and pressed Brienne down to the pillows, when Ser Jaime parted Brienne’s thighs and pleasured her with his fingers and tongue, slowly, carefully coaxing her into full, aching readiness – when he finally, finally settled himself at her entrance, his weight welcome and heavy on her, Brienne only breathed out a long, sighing _yes_. 

If there was pain, it was inconsequential. It was – it was like a strange, aching fullness, when she had never known she was empty. She breathed in, arching beneath him, and the Queen showed her the rhythm of it, how to move as Ser Jaime moved, how to meet and match him as he thrust into her. Ser Jaime talked – did she like it this way, or that; did she like it slow and gentle, or did she want it deeper, harder. Yes, Brienne breathed, like that, and more, please, and oh, that, again. 

Once, Ser Jaime hit on a particular spot that made her gasp and cry out sharply. The Queen laughed. Yes, brother, she purred, right there – 

As Brienne gasped and writhed, Ser Jaime looked down on her with wild green eyes. He abandoned his slow, steady pace and began to fuck her, sweat slicking his body and his lips drawing back in a snarl. Brienne arched her back and clenched her fists in the bedding, lost to everything but the coiling pleasure deep within her, the blood beating furiously in her veins and her panting breaths loud in her ears. She reached up, tangled one hand in his thick golden hair and kissed him, a sloppy bumping of noses and brushing of lips as she gasped and cried out. Behind her, the Queen trailed her slender white hand down her small, sensitive breasts, across her flat muscled belly, and into the thick hair between her thighs. It was the Queen’s wicked fingers that pressed so expertly against her nub, that circled and stroked her and finally brought her pleasure crashing down on her like a breaking wave. 

** 

Afterwards, she lay in the warm sunlight, entwined with both golden twins, their limbs tangled, the mixed smell of sex and the Queen’s perfume heady and intoxicating. 

Ser Jaime murmured nonsense words into her skin, his eyes hooded and lazy, sated; the Queen watched her with a slow, fierce smile. 

Finally, the Queen leaned over to kiss her, slow and deep and sensual. “Lady Brienne,” she whispered, though her eyes were fixed on Ser Jaime’s, “come back again tomorrow.” 

**

And so it was that for the remainder of that week, as King Robert hunted and caroused, Brienne spent the golden mornings lying with the Queen and Ser Jaime in the Queen’s silk draped bed. 

The Queen was a creature of shifting moods and caprice and Ser Jaime was haughty and easily offended, and outside of their overwhelming presence Brienne was uneasily aware that the bond between the twins was older and more perverse than love, more powerful than honour, stronger than any vow. 

But she was sixteen years old and as much a creature of flesh and desire as any other maid. For one mad, reckless week, lost to reality and consequences, she gave herself up to the golden Lannister twins.

And no matter what came afterwards, no matter the violence and the madness and the tragedy that unfolded in later years, she never, ever came to regret it.


End file.
